


The Touch

by darkblood



Series: Your Voice [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkblood/pseuds/darkblood
Summary: While out with the warriors, they tease Diarmuid about how he knows nothing of the world, or the touch of a woman, or even the touch of himself, which makes the men laugh while Diarmuid says nothing in his confusion. Later, when the mute and he are alone, he asks the mute about it. He shows him.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Your Voice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833991
Comments: 24
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

The camp was crowded, far more crowded than Diarmuid cared for. There were at least three times as many men here than there were back home, all in different levels of dress and inebriation. The place was in a constant hum from men talking, laughing, and clatter from dishware and weaponry. It didn’t help that he couldn’t understand most of what was said, speaking in a tongue foreign to his ears. Now and then, men would stare at him, say something in an unpleasant tone to one another, and half the time walk away snickering. If something humorous was going on here, in a camp filled with men trained to kill, it was beyond his grasp. 

The mute must have had a similar feeling in regards to the camp, for he was currently building his own smaller fire pit a bit aways from the rest of the men. It seemed so much quieter and safer over there than where Diarmuid currently was, gathered with the other monks as they discussed plans for later on the trip. However, he was a monk in training, so it would look poor if he didn’t try to stick with his brothers. As he was the youngest, most of the talking was done by others. When his attention slipped, he noticed the mute also received stares and whispers from the soldiers. The way they looked at his friend as they talked about him rubbed Diarmuid the wrong way. It was most likely due to their untrusting eyes. 

Eventually, the talking ended, and the men seemed to scatter in every direction. Some went to eat, some to drink, some to sleep in their group tents. A tent was cleared and offered to the monks, but Diarmuid was unsure if he wanted to stay in there, for now that he was alone again, the staring men seemed to grow in numbers. Not only did he not trust these men on their own, he didn’t trust them to leave his friend alone either. He slowly began to move through the camp, weaving around some of the men that seemed to be approaching him. He did his best to ignore them until two decided to become a wall between him and his destination. 

They both were taller than him, one half dressed with no shirt, the other in a loose tunic and greaves. Their smell was … unpleasant.

“Rainier and I have a bet,” the shirtless one said with odd sounding English. He waved somewhere to his right as he spoke, seemingly towards the man he mentioned. “You see, he thinks you're a girl in disguise for safe travel,” he said, laughter fighting to break through. “But I know better. I’ve dealt with pretty little things like you.”

The man next to him openly laughed, while others close by were snickering. Diarmuid's eyes flicked between all the men, becoming uneasy with every face he looked upon. 

“The cleanest you’ve ever dealt with,” the man in greaves said, elbowing his companion in the ribs. 

While they started lightly roughhousing with the joke, Diarmuid tried to slip past them, only to have the shirtless one grab his forearm tightly and hold it high in the air. The boy had to stand on his toes to lighten the strain on his shoulder. The man’s face was close, unkempt and riddled with small scars. 

“Feisty,” he laughed. “I’ve dealt with those, too,” he added in a low growl.

“L-let me go,” Diarmuid tried to say without a quake in his voice, but utterly failed. 

“Oh don’t you worry, boy. He’s always quick to finish,” the companion added with more laughter from the men. 

The man holding him rolled his eyes, and suddenly his hand was under Diarmuid’s scapula and pressing his robe roughly against his chest, chafing the skin. 

“Flat as a board,” he announced out loud, thankfully removing his hand from Diarmuid's chest. “No surprise.” 

Diarmuid tried to pull away, but the man pulled his arm up higher, causing Diarmuid to cry out. Then the man’s hand went between his legs.

Suddenly, a different arm wrapped around his chest and the man let out a grunt as the world swirled around him. When his feet were safely on the ground, he realized it was the mute who had lifted him away from the drunk men, now placing himself between the boy and the soldiers. The shirtless one was rubbing his shoulder. Diarmuid assumed the mute must have done something to him. 

The man sneered at his defender, but turned to the crowd of men, saying something in their native tongue with some humorous tone, rubbing his fingers and thumb together, eliciting more laughter. 

The greaved companion was laughing, but looking at Diarmuid, who was glaring up at him. 

“You holy men are so easy to fuck with,” he laughed, but Diarmuid could see an odd shadow cross his face. He could have sworn it was hate. 

“For men who walk in the light of God, you do not act as such,” Diarmuid found himself saying far braver than he felt. 

That caught the shirtless man’s attention. The humor in his demeanor vanished. 

“You know nothing of the world, little boy,” he said, standing up straighter and walking forward, only to stop as the Mute raised an arm as a blockade. The man gave a glance at the protector, then back down at the young monk, mouth open, tongue picking his teeth. His words were now harsh and invasive. “If you think the world is anything like your little spit of land hidden away, you’ll be sorely mistaken. You know not of what we have seen, what we have done. The feel of blood running through your fingers, the touch of cold flesh of a friend, hell, even the touch of a woman is beyond your knowledge.”

His companion laughed, and barked, “Doubt he even knows the touch of himself.”

More laughter. Diarmuid clenched his fists tighter. He didn’t understand what was going on, but if it caused the men to laugh, it couldn’t have been anything good.

“Either go back to living in a hole, or learn the ways of the world, boy, before you say such things to men like us, who sacrifice our lives for this holy war,” the man finished, and spat on the ground near him before turning away. 

The man in greaves muttered something in his native language, spitted as well, then joined the other as they walked back to the group of men. Their attitude changed back to somewhat light as they called out to their friends. Any eyes that stayed on Diarmuid didn’t stay for long now that the Mute was with him. 

His friend looked down at him and nodded his head in the direction of his smaller personal camp, and Diarmuid gladly followed. All that happened in the last few minutes had his skin crawling, so he’d like to get as far away from those men as he could. He smiled to himself as they approached, for he noticed there was a log there, specifically to fit two people, as well as their bed rolls tucked next to it. While he was a quiet man, he was very observant, and must have noticed how on edge the camp had left Diarmuid. He was grateful for his companions thoughtfulness. The larger man made sure he was sitting on the side of the log closest to camp to hide the young monk from anyone who tried to look their way in the distance. Once they settled in and the Mute was seemingly done with adjusting the fire, Diarmuid finally chose to speak. 

“Thank you.”

The mute gave a casual nod. He gave the area another look around before looking directly at Diarmuid.

“I’m …” He started, but finding the right words seemed to be an ordeal. “I hope we leave here soon. These men are far from good company.”

A strong hand pulled his own hand away from where it had latched onto his bicep violently. Diarmuid hadn’t realized he was gripping his arms so tightly. He uncrossed them, and instead folded his hands together on his knees.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t let them get to me … and yet,” he swallowed, his mouth suddenly too dry. “I don’t … I don’t like the way they touched me, nor the words they said.”

The mute put his hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder, all the while keeping his eyes locked onto the boy’s face. His eyes always looked so honest and open. It was almost impossible to stop words from tumbling out of Diarmuid’s mouth when the Mute looked at him like that. A part of him wondered if the mute was doing it on purpose. 

“I’ve lived at the monastery my whole life. It’s where I learned everything. I thought I had learned everything I needed to know, and then…” he briefly bit his lip in frustration. “Then they say such things, things I don’t understand, and I don’t know if I’m _supposed_ to know them or not, or if it was simply all a lie in order to make me look foolish for their amusement.”

The hand on his shoulder gave a comforting squeeze.

“Am I really so ignorant of the world? Is it wrong?” he looked up at the man, knowing that his answer would not come in the form of words but instead with his face. He watched the man’s brow slowly knit together and remove the hand on his shoulder. It ran through his hair and rested at the nape of his neck. His eyes held sadness within them, but Diarmuid could not tell if the sadness was for him, or was for the man’s own experiences in the world.

Diarmuid closed his eyes and let his head droop slightly, focusing on the warmth on his skin as he organized his thoughts. He slowly reopened them, and looked back to the mute.

Very slowly, he asked, “Have you seen what they have seen?”

It was the mute’s turn to close his eyes for a moment, before looking back at him and nodding in a regretful sort of manner.

“Have you felt the touch of blood?”

A nod.

“The touch of the dead?”

Another nod.

“The touch of a woman?”

That one made him pause, uncertainty in face until he finally slowly nodded.

“Does it mean to be cared for? Like when I was sick, and you and Brother Ciaran would take care of me? Or is it … something else…”

The Mute looked down and fluffed some of the hair out of his eyes, then looked back at him.

“Hm,” Diarmuid said, noting the man’s intent. “Is it …” his eyes widened slightly for a brief second of realization. “Is it as … when the sheep copulate…”

Slow nod.

“Oh,” he breathed out. The corners of his mouth tightened. “I see.”

It wasn’t exactly a topic much discussed by the other men, particularly in regards to humans. The few times Diarmuid had asked them to explain, they said that it was an act of man they no longer participated in, and the topic was never explored further. 

“So,” he ended up thinking aloud. “So if a touch of a woman means … that … then, what does the touch of oneself mean?”

If the Mute could talk, Diarmuid would have guessed he would be lost for words as he simply blinked several times at the question. 

“Do you know what it means?” He made his words quiet and careful, unsure if this was a topic he was allowed to discuss. 

The blinking stopped, and there was a nod.

Diarmuid stared at his friend, someone afraid if he upset him since he withdrew his hand from the boy’s neck. The man looked down and away in thought, flicking his eyes back up to him, then away again. There was a small huff, and returned his eyes to match Diarmuid's. He shifted, turning away from the fire to straddle the log and face Diarmuid instead. He held up a hand, wiggled the fingers slightly. Then used that hand to lightly tap his groin. 

The boy went to say something, but closed his mouth. He did this a few times, mind trying to wrap around everything as quickly as possible. His face easily reflected his confusion. “But … why?”

The mute tilted his head.

“What purpose does it serve? Being with a woman generally aims towards reproduction, but why … uh … prepare oneself if not to reproduce?”

His lips thinned. 

“That’s … a weird question to ask, isn’t it?”

After a moment of thought, he started tapping on his chest rapidly. 

“Heart? To … get one’s heart racing?”

A nod.

“Like when you’re scared?”

Another nod.

“Is … is the act scary?”

The look on his face told Diarmuid that the man had never considered such a thought. Eventually, he made a strange sort of half nod with a half shrug.

“... have you done it?”

His eyes now carried a weight that Diarmuid didn’t recognize. He stared for some time at the boy before confirming. 

Diarmuid looked down, then towards the fire. It made sense for the man to know more than him. While Diarmuid’s earliest memories were at the monastery, the mute had only been there for the past five years, which meant he was out in the world, the real world, the world Diarmuid had little to no understanding of. When the men had listed the ways of the world off at him with such hate in their words, he assumed the worst of such actions. However, knowing that his closest friend had experienced all of those things as well makes him reconsider. The mute was a far better person than those men. He never once was rude or hurtful to him or the other brothers, and always went out of his way to help Diarmuid whenever he needed it. He was a good man. If he did such acts, they can’t be truly evil. Still, it all was too much to take in, too hard to understand. 

Without thinking, he asked, “Why?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mute’s hand gradually form a fist, dragging at the fabric of his pant leg along the way. It was enough for Diarmuid to look back up to see the mute being the one lost in thought this time. Then, he looked up and almost looked something akin to being lost, unsure, and afraid. It wasn’t a look Diarmuid was used to. It made him instinctively put a hand on one of the man’s knees for comfort. Eyes flicked down at the hand, then back at Diarmuid. He looked through Diarmuid’s chest, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly, then looked Diarmuid dead in the eyes and ushered him closer.

Curious, he did as instructed, until they were facing each other on the log, knees bumping awkwardly. The mute hesitated, then started to untie his pants. Diarmuid clenched his hands on his knees, unsure of what exactly was going on, or what he should be doing. The man paused for a moment, then took off his shirt, Diarmuid leaning back momentarily to give him enough room. He laid the shirt over his lap, holding it in place with one hand while he did something underneath it with the other. He let go of the shirt once he was sure it was in place, but the other hand didn’t come back out. 

The free hand came up between them, and he used two fingers to gesture at his eyes. Diarmuid nodded, thought he wasn’t exactly sure he understood what was going on. For a while, nothing seemed to be much different.

It was when the mute let out a shaky breath that Diarmuid tensed up. 

His eyes became unfocused, unable to really hold a position, lids dropping as if too heavy. His face was twitching, and some of his body was starting to shake. Diarmuid let his eyes follow arm movement, and looked down and realized what the other hand was interacting with exactly. 

A hand grabbed his face, pulling it back up to match the mute’s. His eyes were so intense, pupils threatening to swallow any drop of color surrounding it. It lodged something in Diarmuid’s throat. He was breathing rapidly and ragged, as though he was running as fast as he could, all the while trying to be quiet. He shook his head at Diarmuid, then let go of his face to point at his eyes again. He then rested his hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder. Diarmuid thought it was to make sure he kept his head up, but the way he gripped him with each passing breath made it feel like the mute was grasping for some sort of support. He grabbed the mute’s arm and just held it, mind still racing on what he should do. The faces he was making were blending together. There was pain, relief, anguish, sadness, and Diarmuid was afraid that if this went any longer, he would break into tears. His face was getting red, so was his neck. Something gripped him inside when weak noises escaped the mute’s throat, like whimpers. Diarmuid let go of the arm and grabbed his friend’s face and neck instead. The action spooked the mute, for his eyes suddenly focused to lock eyes with Diarmuid, though it didn’t last long. His eyes clenched shut, and the hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder grabbed at so much cloth so tightly, he was sure it was going to rip. 

Then, out of nowhere, all the tension in the mute’s body vanished. Shoulders dropped, the hand on _his_ shoulder relaxed to the point of nearly falling off, and his head dangled limply as the man let out a large sigh. After a few pants, he raised his head, and Diarmuid saw an odd peace within the mute he had never seen before, like he was free from some heavy burden. His head went to dip again, but Diarmuid intercepted, bumping their foreheads together. All the shaking from earlier was gone. 

Diarmuid licked his lips, and carefully asked, “Are you okay?”

A kind of wheeze similar to a laugh escaped his friend, and he felt him nod against him. 

“So that’s why people do that?”

The hand on shoulder left and sloppily made a home in the back of his head. It gave a little squeeze, and Diarmuid took that as his answer. 

After a minute, they pulled away from each other and the mute had him turn around while he redressed himself. The shirt was not put back on, however. It had been wiped across the grass and hung on a tree nearby. Diarmuid didn’t ask. He was currently at a loss for words. His mind was currently stuck replaying everything that happened within the past several minutes, trying to dissect every detail to understand it all. He was so lost in thought, he jumped when the mute tried to get his attention.

He looked worried. 

“Sorry,” Diarmuid let out half a laugh. “We should rest now. The earlier we leave here, the better.”

After confirming the area was safe, they got their bedrolls out and went to bed. 

With his mind alight, it was hard to fall asleep. He was awake long enough to see the mute rest his forearms over his face and let out a large sigh before flopping over, very much so in the opposite direction of Diarmuid. 

The tightness in his torso increased.


	2. Chapter 2

The mute was gone when he awoke. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, it bothered him. 

The feeling morphed into worry later on, when the mute interfered with the run in with Raymond in the woods. When the armored man left and it was just the two of them, the mute only looked at him once before making his way back to camp. Just a quick glance to make sure Diarmuid was unharmed. 

He wondered if the interaction before bed was something that shouldn’t have happened. At least, that’s how the mute seemed to be taking it. Diarmuid himself was unsure. All he knew was the grip on his shoulder and the look in the mute’s eyes still stuck with him. 

He didn’t want to forget them, either.

Thankfully, he still walked closest to Diarmuid as the men set out that morning with the pack of soldiers. Well, at the beginning anyway. He slowly dipped back the more they walked. Even after the soldiers separated from the pack in search of a different route, leaving only a few behind to defend the monks and the relic, the space between them grew. This behavior from his friend was new to Diarmuid, so he was unsure how to approach it. He wanted to talk to him now, but the group had to keep moving. He’d have to deal with it later, when they can be alone. 

Any plan he thought up along the way was shattered when their caravan was attacked. 

The following minutes were filled with things Diarmuid had never thought he’d see, or had ever wanted to see. He saw his friend unconscious and unresponsive to his pleas. He saw a fellow brother die before him trying to defend the relic from barbarians. 

He also saw a side of the mute he could have never imagined. 

It was so primal, so unyielding, yet precise. He watched his friend slice open a man’s head without flinching, and simply go down the line of approaching threats, taking each out one by one. A man he knew to only be kind to him took down men without a second thought, even when one of the men was Diarmuid himself.

To see it up close, the blood on his face, the snarl in his teeth, the panicked breathing, it hurt to look at as well as take as he slammed Diarmuid into the ground several times before finally hearing his cries. Eyes that were not his slowly disappeared at the realization of his actions, that the mute was holding him down, yet another thing to destroy, that he had hurt his friend. The mute’s eyes were back to normal, the soft ones Diarmuid was used to, by the time the mute let him go completely and pulled away. The interaction left them both shaken, broken in some way, but they couldn’t stop to address it. There was no time. They had to go. The way the mute looked at him as he urged for them to move, a haunting look of regret and guilt, and the way his body shook as Diarmuid touched foreheads with him in a feeble effort to comfort him in what little time they had, they were knives to Diarmuid’s chest. He hated how he couldn’t stop his own crying through it all.

His heart just kept getting heavier from there as the day went on. Seeing the bodies left in the mute’s wake, finding the camp where Brother Ciaran was taken, waiting until dark to try to save him only to fail and watch his mentor die at the hands of Raymond, it was all too much. While he would have done anything to prevent Ciaran’s death, a part of him was glad the mute held him back, holding him tightly in place against his chest. After everything the day had brought them, he desperately needed some sort of comforting touch.

Diarmuid needed even more after finding the rock and having Geraldus hold his face as he scolded his actions made out of love for his fellow brother. The way the man in white touched him felt wrong, nothing like how the mute or the other monks touched him. His hands were too hot, laced in hate, leaving Diarmuid unpleasant for some time. When the frere wasn’t looking, he wiped his face with his sleeves, hoping it would help rid him of the feeling. It didn’t. 

Since the pilgrimage was far more dangerous now than it had ever been, they were to sleep in the dark, butted up against trees and semi hidden by loose foliage so as to make their forms harder to see. Geraldus and Cathal were against one tree, while Diarmuid and the mute were against the other. Diarmuid wanted desperately to sleep, to close his eyes and escape from the world for the smallest amount of time, but the horrors of the day prevented such peace. The thoughts were far too loud.

He sat up quietly, put his face in his hands and took a long, slow breath, held it, then let it out just as slow. He then stilled at the rustling beside him. A hand soon found his arm, and Diarmuid noted how cautious the touch was. 

Diarmuid turned to look at the mute who was now sitting up just as he was. It was hard to fully make him out in the dark, but there was enough moonlight to at least get rough outlines. He then looked at the other tree to see their companions still asleep before staring back at the mute. He put his hand on the hand on his arm and gave the mute’s hand a light squeeze before quietly rising. When the mute started to withdraw his hand, Diarmuid grabbed it, and encouraged the other to stand with him. 

“Come with me,” he whispered close to the mute’s head so as to not wake the others. 

They walked several trees away, a safe enough distance so they could talk without disturbing anyone.

“I can’t sleep,” Diarmuid admitted. The mute stared back at him, and Diarmuid could picture his sympathetic eyes in spite of the darkness that hid them currently. “I keep seeing people dying, and hear people screaming. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

The mute reached out and cupped one of his cheeks. Unlike with Geraldus, the familiar hand was comforting against his skin, even if it had pinned him down earlier that day. He really needed this touch. It was like the world stopped for at least a small moment and things were fine. The thoughts weren’t so loud, so powerful. Instead of hearing people scream, he wanted to hear something else, something he had never heard until the day before. 

“Can you… do what you did last night?”

The thumb gently stroking his cheek stopped and most of the hand lifted off of his face, save for the fingertips. Diarmuid reached up to catch it before it could retreat any further.

“It’s strange,” he stumbled, “And, and I understand that. You looked as though you did something wrong afterwards, but still, I…” he let out a noise of frustration at his inability to find the right words. “I want … to hear …  _ you _ . Just you…”

The hand he held curled, fingertips dragging across Diarmuid’s cheek and tightening around Diarmuid’s thumb. He gripped the hand back accordingly. The mute was still for some time, with the only movements Diarmuid could make out being his facing tilting in different directions. The more time passed, the more Diarmuid regretting asking for such an odd thing. Just as he was about to apologize, the mute tugged him down to the ground, where they sat knee to knee. He could make out arms moving to untie his pants once again, and Diarmuid pulled on the man’s shirt, causing him to stop.

Diarmuid nudged the mute’s knees apart further, enough to fit his own knees in between them. He then reached forward and buried his face into the bend of where the mute’s shoulder and neck met, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and shoulders. The mute remained frozen for a minute or so before Diarmuid felt him move again. There were rustles of clothing, then one of the mute’s arms wrapped around Diarmuid tentatively to hold him as well. 

At the sound of the shaky breath, Diarmuid knew it had started.

All the screams from earlier that day, the ones that refused to leave his head, were finally drowned out by the mute breathing in his ear. It wasn’t anything like the way he breathed when he attacked Diarmuid earlier, scared and angry. The sounds here were small and intimate, pants broken up by short, barely audible moans. The more the mute shook, the faster his breathing got, and more often Diarmuid heard soft whimpers escape the man’s throat as he gripped Diarmuid’s robes for dear life. It was hard to explain, but it made Diarmuid feel like he was being submerged, engulfed by something warm and loving that left his chest tight and caused him to grip the mute tighter. It was this moment, this feeling, that he wanted to replace every bad thing that haunted him with, this feeling that danced on the line of safe and dangerous. 

He felt the mute move his head against his before the man’s face burrowed into his neck, weaseling past his robes so skin touched skin and Diarmuid could directly feel hot breaths grace him. It was like a sudden stab to the gut, this new feeling that struck him, pulling at muscles he never felt before. It almost made himself whimper as the mute went rigid, gripping at the boy tightly and suppressing a cry. 

Something shattered within him, leaving something thick in his throat and his body numb to the world. He was only half aware when the mute pulled away and frantically wiped something off of Diarmuid’s lap. He grabbed the mute’s face in the dark, and he desperately wished he could see the man’s eyes so they could somehow explain this feeling he was having. The mute held his wrists for a bit before leading them both back to their sleeping tree, back to the others, back to the real world. 

At least he could stay in that moment in his dreams, even if only for a little while.


	3. Chapter 3

In a matter of hours, Diarmuid had lost everything. 

He lost his trust in the church for their desire to use the relic to inspire war. He lost the relic to the ocean as he gave it back to God. He lost his innocence when he kicked a man to his death while defending himself. He lost a fellow brother to an arrow from other war hungry men. He lost his closest friend when the man was coerced into sacrificing himself to let them get away. He lost that warm feeling he had been clinging to since last night, that had kept him going until now.

He lost sight of what he should do.

“Where to now?”

Diarmuid’s eyes kept jumping from his dead friends, to where he was supposed to be going, even though there was no longer a reason to do so. He had thrown the reason for the journey, the cause of all of his suffering, into the ocean. A part of him wished someone had thrown it into the ocean long ago, maybe then things wouldn’t have turned out like this.

“Boy?” the boatman spoke again, waiting for an answer, an answer that Diarmuid didn’t have.

He stared back at the beach, where he could make out several bodies, some standing, most not. There was no movement, no noise, which told him that the mute was one of the fallen men, laying still on the sand. He closed his eyes tight, biting his lip, fighting the stinging in his eyes. 

He could still hear the mute breathing in his ear.

Slowly, Diarmuid let himself collapse into the boat, curling in on himself and let the tears win as they broke loose. He buried his hands into his hair, gripping tightly, clawing at his own skin as he let the wails of sorrow escape him. It was too hard to hold them back any longer. 

The boat rocked gently and a hand started to rub his back.

“It’s alright, boy,” said the boatman. “We’ve both lost much today. It’s okay to be upset.”

The man didn’t say much else, but patiently gave soothing backrubs as Diarmuid released all the feelings he had locked away during the journey. Those sick drunken soldiers were right, the world was nothing like the monastery. All that was out here to find was horror and heartbreak, death and destruction. He wanted to forget it all, to go back in time, to be safe at home with his family, and his friend. 

Out of all the things he lost, losing the mute hurt the most, a kind of hurt that would never leave him. 

Even with all Diarmuid’s crying, he could hear him still.

The boatman eventually pulled away, and Diarmuid wiped as much off of his face as he could. The rudder creaked as the man cranked it hard to one side, the boat slowly started heading towards land. It wasn’t quite towards the beach, the beach Diarmuid could only imagine being heavily stained with blood, but it was still in sight as they floated in silence. The boy stared at the man, unsure of what exactly his plan was, but he also didn’t know if he should question him. At least he had an idea of what to do next, unlike Diarmuid. Instead, he kept his eyes on the beach, noting that there were less men there now than there was earlier. They must have wondered off while Diarmuid was crying. He tried his best to pick out which of the abandoned bodies was of his friend. Quiet tears returned as he stared, imagining what it would have been like to die on the beach beside him. 

When their boat bottomed out, the man stood and nudged Diarmuid out of his trance. 

“Help me move the boat boy. I have something I need to do.”

Diarmuid nodded and stood. With just the two of them, it was hard to move, but thankfully they didn’t have to move it far. Just onto the beach enough where it wouldn’t float away when they left it behind. The man walked with determination along the coast, back towards the beach filled with death. Diarmuid, having no where else to go, simply followed. 

The sight of the bodies made Diarmuid feel empty. Traces of the fight were left in the sand, hurried footwork that pushed the sand here and there, along with splatters of blood and forgotten pieces of flesh. A very large patch of dark red stood out to Diarmuid, as the sand there had been shifted the most, with a trail of blood leading away, only to disappear. 

Then his eyes landed on a familiar sight, the sight of a scared back with a bold black cross. It made his insides turn to ice. His body couldn’t decide if he should run to him and cradle the man or stay as far away as possible to try to deny reality from sinking in.

The boatman decided for him. 

“Give me a hand, boy,” he called out, giving him a wave. He was further down the beach, and Diarmuid could see several bodies around him, but the man was pulling at one specifically. 

It was the other boat runner.

Diarmuid helped the man carry the body out of the water and onto land, all the way back to the man’s boat. They removed Cathal’s body, and placed the other boatman in the boat. Diarmuid took note of the care that was put into his placement, and how the man petted the still man’s head before exiting the boat. The boatman looked down at Cathal. 

“I plan on taking my son home to bury him,” he said.

The young monk’s eyes widened at the realization.

“I’m sorry to have dragged you both into all of this,” apologized Diarmuid, head bowing in disgrace. “Your son would still be alive if it weren’t for us.”

“Probably,” said the man, causing Diarmuid to flinch. “Then again, the same could be said about your former companions.”

“I…” said the boy, “I wish we had never left the monastery…”

The man sighed and scratched his head. 

“Look, I can’t help you take your friends bodies back home, but I could at least help you bury them, if you wish.” Diarmuid looked up at him with large eyes. “It will help with the closure.”

Diarmuid let out a sigh of defeat. “Right.”

They moved Cathal first, carrying him into the forest. Neither of them had a shovel, so they had to settle with finding large grooves in the ground formed by the trees and laid the corpse there. The boatman cracked the arrow shaft, leaving only an inch or two left sticking out of Cathal’s body, before they covered it in leaves. He jammed the rest of the arrow into the ground next to the body in memoriam and Diarmuid gave a small prayer for him, before they made their way back to the beach, to what Diarmuid dreaded to face.

The position they found the mute in was awkward, the kind that looked like he was in the middle of trying to get up, only to have failed. A knee was pulled up and in, mid-crawl, arms following suit, heading somewhere Diarmuid would never know. He felt himself shaking as he slowly stepped forward towards the body, the boatman staying back after reading how upset the boy was. He slowly dropped down beside his friend, placing a hand on an oddly elevated shoulder. He looked up and blinked away tears trying to return as well as steadied his breathing, for the man was still warm. With a large exhale, Diarmuid heaved the body onto its back, and a combination of ice and fire filled his veins at the site of a certain metal pole sticking out of the mute’s abdomen. He couldn’t stand the thought of pulling it out. He couldn't bear to see yet another someone he loved be mangled by such a tool. 

Loved. Past tense. They weren’t here anymore. 

He laid himself across the mute’s chest, his eyes tired from all the crying. He felt the scars beneath his fingertips along the man’s chest, and followed the curves of muscles leading to his neck, ending at his face, lax and unaware of the world around it. 

Shifting, he did his best to recreate the position they were in last night, with him clinging to the mute while the man’s mouth was close to his ear. He closed his eyes and held his breath so he could listen to the mute’s breathing as it played in his head. 

Then he realized how warm his ear was getting. 

Diarmuid pulled his head back, looking at the body beneath him, unmoving. He looked the body head to toe, no indication of life to be seen, but still… 

He placed his ear against the man's chest and did his best to ignore any sounds from the ocean he was hearing. All he wanted, all he _needed_ was the smallest sign. He would give anything. 

It was low, dull, and slow, but he heard it, the sound of a heartbeat.

Diarmuid sat up, teeth clattering at the chance of hysterical laughter. He whipped his head towards the boatman, and said, almost laughing, “I think… he’s still alive.”

“What?” the man said immediately in disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

He quickly plopped down on the other side of the mute, and jammed his fingers on either side of the mute’s throat. After a moment, his eyes widened.

“Stubborn bastard’s still alive, even with an arrow in the gut,” he said and went to reach for the protruding metal.

“No!” Diarmuid snapped, and blocked the man from touching the shaft. “It’s not a normal arrow. It’s some sort of torture device,” he explained. “It has prongs on it and … when you remove it, it removes your organs…”

The man hissed at the imagery and retracted his hand. 

“If he’s gonna have any chance at living, it’ll have to come out sooner or later.”

Diarmuid looked at the mute’s face and touched it with the back of his fingers. He turned back to the boatman.

“Then how do we remove it?”

“Well,” he started, running a tongue over his teeth. “I got an idea, but he isn’t gonna like it.”

“Anything will do, as long as it helps him!” urged Diarmuid.

The man looked at him long and hard, then finally nodded. “Alright. Here’s what we gotta do.”

* * *

Diarmuid followed every instruction the man gave him, never stopping once to question him. He fetched firewood from the forest, he looted the dead soldiers for weapons and cloth, and he scraped moss from trees and rocks. He moved quickly and efficiently. If the mute hadn’t given up yet, neither would he.

When the man had everything he asked for, and a fire was burning beside them on the beach, he turned to Diarmuid and said, “I’ve only ever done this on livestock, mind you.”

“It’s fine,” he responded shortly.

“You gonna pass out at the sight of blood?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The boat runner grabbed a knife and wiped it a few times against the moss before placing his hands around the wound, Diarmuid ready with scrap clothing. The man tilted his head to the side for a second, his face screaming that he hoped it was gonna work, then started to slice the skin around the wound. 

A sharp wheeze came from the mute and his body spasmed briefly. Diarmuid grabbed him to hold him still while the man cut into his abdomen. The more the man widened the opening, the more he moved and the more noise he made. Diarmuid had to press his weight down on the mute’s chest to help hold him still, all the while he talked to him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Please, hold on a little longer. I’m right here with you, so hold on.”

He did his best to help wipe away blood while holding his friend still. The boatman tried to work fast, jamming his fingers in the large opening he created to feel his way around the metal weapon. 

“He keeps retangling himself in the damn hooks,” he grunted in frustration. He had to sit on the mute’s legs to minimize the thrashing. 

Diarmuid leaned forward so his mouth was against the mute’s ear as he pressed his chest down to hold him still. “It’s me. It’s me, Diarmuid. I know it hurts, but please, just breathe. Focus on breathing. I need to hear you breathe. Please. I need to hear it.”

His words must have reached him, for the flailing died down a bit and could hear the harsh puffs of air leave the mute’s nose as he tried to regulate his breathing. 

“It’s okay, It’s okay,” Diarmuid chanted, voice uneven from it all. He couldn’t deny that he was saying it for both of their sakes. 

“Got it,” the boatman said, tossing the wretched device to the side and grabbed one of the blades from the fire, and jammed it somewhere inside the mute’s stomach, eliciting a loud, rabid scream from the mute. 

The man cauterized several more things while Diarmuid kept his forehead pressed against the mute’s to both hold him still and send him some sort of comfort through it. Finally, the moss was put in place on the wound and the boatman did his best to wipe away as much blood as he could from the mute and himself. The mute, weak from the pain and the blood loss, was quick to slip back into unconsciousness once all the painful stimulation died down. Diarmuid didn’t let go until he was certain his friend was still for the time being.

“That’s the best I can do for him,” the boatman said. “The next half a day here will decide if he lives or dies.”

“Thank you,” said Diarmuid, words dripping with honesty and gratitude. “Thank you. I would have never been able to help as much as you have.”

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. His life now rests in the hands of God, not me.”

He rose from his spot and collected the weapons and other trinkets found off the fallen soldiers. He bundled them in one of the few remaining shirts. 

“When the moss gets too dark, switch it out with fresh moss. He’ll probably have a fever, so get ready for that.” 

“What?” asked Diarmuid. “You’re leaving?”

“There is nothing else I can do for you now, boy,” he said, his voice clearly tired. “I have to get home and bury my own family.” 

He bent over to grab the few swords that didn’t fit in his bundle, but Diarmuid stopped him. 

“Not that one. It’s his. He might need it.”

He looked at the boy before sighing, “Alright.” He gave the beach another glance. “Good luck to you, boy. To both you and that stubborn fool with you.”

“Thank you.”

With that, the man left, leaving Diarmuid and the mute alone on the bloodied beach. 

Before the sun started to set, Diarmuid gathered more moss and firewood while he was still able to see. He also cleaned up the mute’s shirt he found abandoned amongst the dead bodies. If he was going to have a fever, Diarmuid wanted something he’d be able to drench with cool water. 

To try to give the mute a sliver of comfort, Diarmuid removed his scapula and turned it into a makeshift pillow. The man made no signs of waking up anytime soon, which left him feeling ill, so he focused on taking care of the wound. Even after the sun had fully disappeared and the only light to keep them company was the fire, he had to keep changing out the moss. As the pile of bloodied moss kept growing, so did the fear in Diarmuid’s chest.

The boatman’s warning came to fruition, and the mute was breaking out in a sweat despite it being so cold. The sea water was colder still as Diarmuid soaked the shirt and applied it to the mute’s head and neck. It left the boy’s fingers frozen, and he had to warm them by the small fire. It didn’t kick off much heat, but it was more so there for lighting than for warmth. He repeated the process several times throughout the night, as well as wound upkeep. 

He was tired and cold, but he was too afraid to fall asleep. The moon easily passed its highest point in the sky as he waited, praying the mute’s fever would soon break. After soaking the shirt for the umpteenth time, Diarmuid found that he couldn’t stop shaking. His friend was still warm to the touch, which while concerning, felt heavenly to his frozen fingers. He felt a sense of shame when he found himself curling up against his friend to leech warmth from him, even as he laid there, fighting to live. He hoped the mute would later forgive him, if they got through all of this.

When. _When_ they got through all of this.

He had to believe the mute would survive.


	4. Chapter 4

At some point, Diarmuid must have passed out from exhaustion, for when he was startled awake by movement against him, the sun was there to greet him. It also took him a moment to register what exactly was moving. Then he heard a soft groan.

Diarmuid quickly shot up and examined his friend. He pushed aside the dried out shirt and felt the mute’s forehead. It wasn’t nearly as hot as last night, which was a blessing. The moss on the wound was dark and flaky. He’d have to change it. Though for now, he cared more about the eyes that were slowly trying to open.

He repositioned himself, so his face was over the mutes so he could see better. Tired eyes blinked open, lightly blinded by the sun. They seemed fuzzy as they looked through Diarmuid, though they eventually locked on to his stare. He squinted, looking unsure as a hand reached up and bumped into Diarmuid’s side. The boy guided it to his shoulder blade absentmindedly without looking away. 

He wanted to say something, but words weren’t coming to him. He could only move his mouth slightly as his jaw started to shake and his eyes started to sting. The mute’s face shifted into that of concern, and his hand moved from the shoulder to lightly touching the side of Diarmuid’s neck. The boy’s voice was weak and cracked when he finally found his words again.

“You left,” he choked out. The mute was visibly hurt by the words. “You left, and I thought you would never come back. Don’t ever leave me again. Okay?”

Though his words weren’t very clear through the tears, his friend still got the message. The mute pulled the younger closer until they bumped heads. Diarmuid wanted to stay like this, but he could feel his tears run off his face and onto the mute. He also still had the wound to redress. With some effort, he pulled away and wiped some of the tears away with the back of his hand. The mute tried to follow him up, only to flinch and release a wheezy groan. 

“You’re not fully healed, yet,” said Diarmuid, sniffling and trying to regain composure. “Here,” he then uncorked one of the waterskins, and offered it to the mute who drank from it greedily. Once the mute was done, he took it back and shook it to hear how much was left, then looked at the crusted moss. “Brace yourself,” he warned, then poured the water on the wound to loosen the moss from the skin. 

The mute exhaled heavily through the nose, jaw clenched, then resumed his laying down position as Diarmuid removed the old moss to replace it with new. Thankfully, the majority of the bleeding seemed to have gone down, and the wound was more so weeping than anything. Once he was done, now that the tension in his body from waiting for the mute to wake up, he realized how hungry he was. He looked around and spotted the abandoned cargo of the boatman from their original trip. 

He stood up to search, and the mute tried to sit up as well.

“Stop,” urged Diarmuid. He gave the older man a push to his shoulders to have him lay back down. “Please rest, at least a little while longer. I’m just going over there to see if there’s any food.”

The mute followed his pointed finger with his eyes. He let himself flop back down onto the beach, apparently satisfied with Diarmuid’s answer, and didn’t try to follow him this time as he stood.

The majority of the cargo was either ruined or had washed away at some point. A large canvas bag seemed to fare the best out of it all, staying mostly closed and having only half the contents waterlogged. There wasn’t much, but he found rations for both of them, spiced jerky and hardtack. With nothing else to do but wait for the other man to heal, he spread the contents of the back across the beach to dry. Hopefully some of it could become usable when they finally moved. 

After they ate, Diarmuid utilized a broken barrel and used it as a backboard for the mute, who seemed insistent on at least sitting up somewhat as opposed to staying laying down. Diarmuid also offered him his shirt, but he would only wear it once Diarmuid put his scapula back on. With busy work finished for now, they sat in silence, staring out into the ocean, wondering what to do next.

Old habits seemed to die hard, for Diarmuid found himself speaking freely to his friend, without little thought.

“The others are gone.”

The mute gave him his attention, like he always did.

“Brother Cathal was shot with an arrow,” he answered the unasked question. “The boatman and I buried him in the woods.” He tilted his head in that direction at the mention of the lost brother. “Frere Geraldus was lost at sea, along with the rock.” 

At that, he pulled himself inward, feeling the guilt sit in his stomach like a stone. The Mute put a hand on his leg to comfort him, and Diarmuid looked away from the ocean to look at his friend staring at him.

“It’s my fault. Geraldus said the relic was going to be used to make people fight and die in the name of the Lord, just like you. It all felt wrong, as though every kind thing the brothers taught me growing up meant nothing. I tried to toss the relic into the ocean, but Geraldus stopped me. Choked me. I was scared, so I kicked him off… Both he and the relic fell into the water and never resurfaced.”

As he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. It was empty, crackling in odd places. The mute’s hand moved to his neck, thumb under his left ear. It made Diarmuid release a slow breath. It was amazing how much comfort he could feel from such a simple touch.

“I don’t know what to believe in anymore,” he admitted. “Or what I should do now. I thought I was going to be a monk and spend the rest of my life at the monastery, but now that I see the kind of acts people do in the name of God, I’m not so sure anymore.”

He looked to the sky, and the mute’s hand fell away. It was still early afternoon. 

“We can’t stay on this beach forever,” Diarmuid pointed out.

After a moment, the mute slowly tried to stand. Diarmuid went to stop him, but the mute held up a hand and shook his head. There were some flinches and twitches in the face, but he stood and seemed fairly stable. The man motioned with his head towards the wood, indicating they should get going. Diarmuid didn’t know where to, but the man was right. They should get moving. 

Diarmuid checked the spread out supplies and took what was salvageable, loading it into the bag. As there wasn’t too much, the bag wasn’t very heavy, so Diarmuid could carry it himself to make sure the mute didn’t stress himself. He handed the sword to his friend, and offered to be a crutch as they started into the woods. They quickly stopped though when Diarumuid stalled in front of Cathal’s makeshift grave. 

“We should return to the monastery to tell the others what happened,” Diarmuid finally decided. “They deserve to know what happened to their brothers.”

The mute nodded and started leading them in a direction Diarmuid assumed was towards the monastery. Now that it was just the two of them, it would most likely take quite some time until they found their way home. 

Well, back to the place they used to call home. Diarmuid wasn’t sure if he deserved to be there any longer after all that had happened. 

* * *

By the second day of travels, the mute’s movement was back to normal, allowing them to move at a standard pace. Diarmuid couldn’t decide if the mute was a fast healer, or if he was very good at hiding pain. 

They decided it would be risky to walk along the roads, considering they weren’t on good grounds with the locals, nor with the occupying foreigners, so they kept to the woods. Diarmuid resisted the urge to talk as they walked, letting the mute readily hear things close by in case of an ambush. Every now and then, the man would look off in some direction, then they’d walk the opposite way, which Diarmuid assumed was to avoid whatever the noise was. It was odd. Somehow traveling just the two of them felt far safer than the caravan. Perhaps it was because he honestly liked his current company.

To stay hidden, they avoided making campfires. Thankfully, the mute didn’t seem too opposed that Diarmuid sat closer to him than normal due to the cold air at nightfall. They ate a small amount of rations to try to make them last as long as possible, since it might take longer than desired to reach their destination. While they ate, Diarmuid couldn't help but stare at mute. It boggled his mind that just a few days ago he almost died on that forsaken beach.

“You know,” said Diarmuid after finishing his meal. The mute stopped midchew. “I thought you were dead when I found you.”

His friend slowly finished chewing and swallowed. Diarmuid could see the guilt in his eyes. 

“It was the worst pain I had ever felt,” he admitted. Then he laughed, ashamed. “I watched all three of my fellow brothers die in front of me, but the idea of you being gone … that was too much. I’m not a very good monk, am I?”

Since they were sitting close together, the mute leaned in and nudged Diarmuid gently. 

The boy paused in wonder.

“When the boat runner was removing the prong from your stomach … could you hear me?”

The mute thought for a moment, eyes closed, before opening them again and nodding. 

Diarmuid half smiled to himself. “Do you like my voice?” 

The mute seemed a little perplexed by the question, but he nodded all the same. 

“I like your voice, too.”

That one got him. He simply sat there, frozen, staring at his younger companion, mind presumably blank. 

“Can I … hear it again? Or have I crossed a line…”

There was an odd weight in his eyes again, like the first night he explained so many things to Diarmuid. He broke eye contact, and Diarmuid could tell his mind was racing. It was his turn to look away now. He didn’t exactly like seeing his friend in a strange sense of distress, particularly one caused by  _ him _ . He shouldn’t have been surprised though, since he was acting out of selfishness, thinking only of his own desires, even if he didn’t fully understand them. 

Fingers found Diarmuid’s chin and lightly pulled until he was face to face with the mute. The man was staring deep into his eyes, taking in every detail, calculating every feature. Diarmuid was unsure of what kind of face he was even making, so instead of trying to hide whatever it was, he stared back at the large eyes he was so used to looking into. The pupils twitched for a moment, expanding and shrinking rapidly, surprising Diarmuid. He didn’t recall ever seeing his eyes do that before. The mute licked his lips, and swallowed noticeably before pulling away and rearranging them to face one another, just like the other times. 

Just as he went to unto his pants, Diarmuid caught his wrists. The mute gave him a startled look, unsure of what exactly the boy was doing.

“Can … I mean …” babbled Diarmuid, struggling to hold his confidence. He scooted closer, his legs partially on top of the mute’s. “I… want to be the one who, um, makes you make those sounds…”

He felt the wrists he was holding onto shake slightly, and he realized the mute’s fists were suddenly tightly clenched. The man’s face was in utter disbelief. Diarmuid released his grip and folded his hands over his stomach. 

“Can you teach me?”

Diarmuid realized this was one of the few times that he had ever seen the mute scared, completely unsure of himself, but it didn’t seem like it was going to stop him. He took a deep breath, and undid both sides of his pants in order to pull down the front properly, letting Diarmuid see for the first time exactly what the mute had been doing these past times. Not to mention what exactly was down there.

There had been a rare few times when Diarmuid had woken up and his own dick was … perkier than normal, but it never lasted very long so he never thought much about it. This, on the other hand, was different in so many ways. For starters, it wasn’t  _ his _ , it was the  _ mute’s _ and it was right in front of him out in the fading light of the day. It was also different in every respect. The size, the color, the shape. Diarmuid suddenly wasn’t so sure what exactly he signed up for. 

He turned his attention to the mute’s hands that were currently folding and pulling back his long shirt to keep it out of the way from … whatever they were about to do. The hands hesitated, then urged Diarmuid to come closer, though he rearranged their legs so the mute’s were on top. He then slowly guided Diarmuid’s right hand to his dick, all the while looking mildly uncomfortable. Diarmuid was very thankful nonetheless, even more so as the mute continued to lead. He moved Diarmuid’s thumb to the base of the shaft and had him press inwards while dragging up, a kind of sigh escaping his nose while it happened. By the time his thumb reached the top, some sort of liquid was coming out. He pressed Diarmuid’s palm onto the tip and moved out in a spiraling pattern, coating more and more of both Diarmuid’s hand as well as the mute’s dick in whatever the slick yet sticky liquid was. Slowly, he had Diarmuid curl his hand around the warm flesh and did his best to guide the motions, though Diarmuid could tell he was having a hard time, because his breathing already changed. 

So, it’s begun.

When Diarmuid became more confident with his movements, the mute withdrew his hand while the other one found a spot on Diarmuid’s shoulder. The younger boy did his best to pay attention to his actions in correlation with the man’s breathing, and how the more he angled his wrist at the head, the more noise would escape the mute’s throat. Diarmuid used his free hand to put it on the back of the mute’s neck to pull him closer so he could hear better. 

He repeated the motions in rhythm, and the mute’s breathing synced up with it quickly. It was interrupted, however, when the slick substance seemed to have dried up. He tried the thumb trick again to get a bit more to come out, but it didn’t last long and the mute made a noise of discomfort. 

The mute grabbed his wrist to bring it up to his mouth, and Diarmuid watched as the man slowly spit into his hand. After he stared for a beat, Diarmuid got the message, and resumed his actions so the mute would resume his panting. Something in his chest swelled when the mute’s face found its way back into the crook of his neck, which made him grip tighter, causing the mute to suppress a gasp. He was beginning to shake, so Diarmuid tried to keep the pace steady, though he could feel his hand drying out. As much as it pained him, he pulled the mute away from his neck so he could lean down and spit onto the mute’s dick directly so he wouldn’t have to stop. As he gathered saliva in his mouth, he stared down thinking about how to approach it when he was struck with an idea. More of an urge, really. A curiosity.

He leaned down, opened his dripping mouth and pressed his tongue in circles onto the head of the mute’s dick.

The mute made the loudest noise yet, and that only spurred Diarmuid on more.

It took a bit to figure out his own timing with his mouth and hand, but it seemed to be doing the trick since the mute’s breathing got faster and faster. He waited for that impending moment of the man going rigid, but he didn’t get to experience what that was or what that meant, for he was suddenly yanked upward by his scapula. He went to question it, but then saw the man biting his lip while he gripped Diarmuid’s clothes tightly. The tension soon passed and the mute let out a held breath. Diarmuid looked down and realized why the mute pulled him back. 

A different substance came shooting out of the mute’s dick in short bursts, something milky and just as slick as the previous liquid. It took a moment for the mute to regain composure before wiping away the goo from his pants, his dick, and a part of Diarmuid’s robes. He now understood what the mute had been wiping off the time before.

After a few more sighs, the mute stared at Diarmuid with that blissful look. His eyes looked somewhere on the lower half of his face, then the man leaned forward, brushed some hair away and planted a soft kiss on Diarmuid’s forehead before putting his own forehead there. Diarmuid couldn’t stop the smile forming on his face. He brought his hands to either side of the mute’s head and ran his thumbs through the man’s hair. 

“Would you be mad if I said the sounds you make are pretty?”

The mute chuckled and rubbed his head vigorously against the boy’s, eliciting a laugh from his throat. 

It felt like forever since he laughed. 

Then again, he’s never felt as oddly happy as he did at that moment.


	5. Chapter 5

Since talking while walking wasn’t an option, Diarmuid spent their travels thinking to himself.

He thought about what to tell the other monks, whether it was wise to mention he purposefully discarded the relic into the sea, while accidentally throwing Geraldus in as well. He also didn’t know if he should to go into detail on the other monks’ deaths, the torture that Ciaran went through, the hammer, the arrow, that the only two to survive the trip weren’t even full-fledged monks. 

He wondered if they would punish them in some way, or pretend the whole incident never happened. 

The two stopped for lunch near a safe stream, though chose their location of rest wisely as to not be easily spotted. The mute finished eating first, so he refiled their waterskins while Diarmuid ate. When the mute returned, he sat beside Diarmuid and the boy turned his head to face him.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

The mute looked at him in confusion. 

“For last night,” explained Diarmuid. The mute had a wary look on his face, so he continued to explain. “I keep asking you to do … well,  _ unusual _ things. And last night in particular, at the start anyway, you looked … scared. So, I’m sorry.”

The mute furrowed his brow slightly and ran his hand through Diarmuid’s hair before resting it on the back of his head. The motion was different than normal. It was somehow lighter, slower, more meticulous than usual. It most likely had to do with the weight in his eyes. 

“I don’t like when I’m the reason you’re upset,” he found himself continuing. “I keep being selfish, only really caring about what I want, which I shouldn’t be doing. I shouldn’t ask you to do those kinds of things to begin with, but … it’s just … I get a weird feeling when it happens. It’s … I get really warm, and it feels like my chest wants to burst. I also like how peaceful you look afterwards. It makes me happy when you’re happy.”

The mute turned slightly, then placed both his hands on either side of Diarmuid’s face and looked deep into his eyes. There was the smallest hint of him biting his lip, and his eyebrows were up and together. Diarmuid was having a hard time reading what exactly the man was thinking as his eyes bore into him. It made him swallow thickly. 

“So … I …” words were suddenly very hard to find. “If there’s something I can do to make up for it, I’ll do whatever you want me to… do…”

The older man kissed him and all thoughts fell out of his head. 

It started out soft, but quickly ramped up as a tongue forced its way into Diarmuid’s mouth, and he let out a noise of surprise. One of the hands on his face left to snake its way under his arm and onto his back in order to pull him closer as the man shifted. The way they kissed and the intensity of the grip on his robes, it almost felt like he was about to be eaten alive. The other hand soon left his face to pull cloth away from his neck, allowing the mute to run a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his collarbone. It caused his body to react in a way he wasn’t used to, making his stomach tight and eliciting some sort of pressure below that. The mute’s head snapped back up and went back to devouring every inch of Diarmuid’s mouth. Meanwhile, the hand at his neck moved to pull at Diarmuid’s leg until it was able to find its way up his robes, pulling them up and out of the way.

His heart was racing, as was his mind. He was scared, but he also didn’t want to stop the mute, and he didn’t understand why. When the mute’s hand finally reached past his pants and touched Diarmuid’s bare chest, he let out a gasp. While their mouths were separated, the mute took the opportunity to suck on his neck, and Diarmuid gripped the other man’s biceps tightly. It seemed the more the mute was able to touch, the more intense it became, hasty, needy, suddenly desperate to touch more. The hand on his back withdrew to slide up Diarmuid’s arm into his sleeve until he could feel a rough hand pull at the skin covering his back muscles. Then he felt his pants come undone as the other hand slipped down and gripped him. 

Diarmuid let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. The mute pulled his head away from Diarmuid’s throat and watched him, mouth open and moving each time Diarmuid made another noise. Diarmuid couldn’t stop them escaping his mouth, nor able to keep his eyes open to see what the mute was doing. The way the man was touching him was overwhelming. It made him squirm as though his body wanted to get away, yet grab onto the mute for dear life and pull him closer. Every now and then, he’d feel the mute kiss him, or run teeth along his jaw and neck, then he realized that he wasn’t the only one panting. With the sounds and the touches, it was becoming too much. He was sure his body was about to break. 

The mute let out a shaky breath into his ear, and he really did break.

His whole body tightened and shook with tension as he screamed into the mute’s shoulder to muffle his cries. While his body was winding down, the mute placed several biting kisses along his neck before burying into it and holding Diarmuid tightly against him until the boy could remember how to breathe normally again.

After a moment, he felt the bliss that he had seen in the mute’s eyes the first time he showed him this strange new world. It made him snuggle in closer, as well as want to collapse onto the ground and go to bed right then and there. He flinched slightly as he felt the mute’s hand pull away, then the man lowered Diarmuid to the ground, letting him lay there and catch his breath while the mute cleaned up. His mind started working again.

Is this what the mute felt all those time? Is this what Diarmuid did to him the other night? It felt … good, yet vulnerable, like he was putting his life directly into the mute’s hands. It was strange to think the mute let Diarmuid make him feel so vulnerable, that he trusted the boy that much to let him be the source of both fear and pleasure. It made his heart feel warm.

The mute paused tying Diarmuid’s pants and snapped his head up and away, pulling Diarmuid out of his thoughts. He quickly finished, then backed away to grab his sword he left laying on the ground. Diarmuid sat up quietly and readjusted his clothes, trying to see what the mute was looking at, but saw nothing. The man squinted, looking unsatisfied, then motioned to Diarmuid to follow him and stay quiet. 

They stayed crouched while they moved for some time, then suddenly stopped to drop down behind some trees and shrubs. The mute used some leaves to increase their cover and laid down next to Diarmuid, hand on his head, keeping the boy’s head down. The boy was a bit confused as to why, but then he heard it, the soft thuds of horse hooves.

Their approach was slow and nerve wracking. Diarmuid closed his eyes and made his breathing silent, praying for the ignorance of the soldiers to be enough to overlook them. His prayers rang true, for when they were closer, they were having a conversation, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. They were speaking that language again, the one Diarmuid didn’t understand, though it seemed the mute did, judging by his actions after Geraldus kept yelling at him in it. It was apparent again as the men talked, they said something, followed by laughter, and Diarmuid felt the mute’s hand curl roughly against his head, pulling at hair. Whatever they were saying, Diarmuid assumed that it wasn’t good, and was almost glad he couldn’t understand. 

It wasn’t until they were fully gone that the mute let go of Diarmuid and stood up. They started walking again, at a much faster pace, until they started to reach land that Diarmuid recognized. It was after dark by the time they crossed the border, but the clear skies and full moon guided them well enough.

Since they were still a day away from the monastery, they camped for the night. Being back in safe territory, the mute felt comfortable enough for them to have a fire. The warmth was welcomed after several nights without it.

After finishing what was left of their rations, Diarmuid stared at the mute for a bit before crawling over and sitting on his heels, facing the mute as the man raised a brow at him.

“Earlier, when you kissed me,” he said bluntly, not really sure of another way to put it. “It felt like you wanted to do that for a while now …”

The mute looked away to the fire, then back at him, face unreadable. 

“Am I wrong?”

No answer, just wandering eyes.

“I mean, I liked it,” he added. “ I like when I touch you, and when you touch me. I … like  _ everything _ about you.”

The eyes stopped wandering and locked with his. He grabbed Diarmuid’s chin lightly, then oh so hesitantly gave him a slow kiss. When he pulled back, Diarmuid smiled back at him, signaling that everything was fine, that he liked it, that he  _ wanted _ it, and for the first time in a long time, the mute smiled back at him. 

Diarmuid had forgotten how beautiful the man’s smile was. 

* * *

They reached the monastery by mid afternoon. Very few of the monks were out and about as they approached, but once the monks spotted them, suddenly they all came flooding out, waiting for the two of them to arrive. 

The two of them looked awful, clothes caked in the remains of the ocean, dirt, and blood, their hair just the same. Diarmuid carried the little remains of the boatman’s ruined stock in his now mostly empty sack, and the mute carried nothing but a sword, both objects not in their possession at the beginning of their journey. It attracted the eyes of many brothers, but Diarmuid ignored them.

“I did not expect your return,” started Abba, shoulders back, looking both of them up and down. “You were supposed to accompany the relic all the way to Rome. The fact you have returned bodes ill.”

Diarmuid looked amongst the brothers, all watching in curiosity and worry. He did his best to swallow the fear in his throat.

“Brother Ciaran, Brother Rua, and Brother Cathal have all passed away during the journey.”

“What?” murmured some of the men, some doing small prayers for the fallen. Brother Abba’s shoulders fell slightly. 

“And what of the relic?” 

“It’s … gone, sir. Along with Frere Geraldus.” 

More muttering. Brother Abba let out a large displeased sigh. 

“By gone, I assume you mean lost, or stolen.”

Diarmuid chewed his tongue for a moment. “I gave the rock back to God, as it should have been done long ago.”

All the muttering stopped, and all eyes were on him, including the disapproving ones of Brother Abba. Diarmuid looked down in shame, of having let down his family, but perked his head back up at the weight of a strong hand on his shoulder. The mute stood by him, giving his silent support, the way he always did. 

“I merely wished to tell you the fates of your brothers, and perhaps request a place to stay for the night before we leave in the morning.”

“Leave?” asked one of the other monks, one of the younger ones. The bearded one next to him gave a light tap to his arm to hush him, but he ignored it. “With you being the last alive of our brothers, you wish to leave?”

Diarmuid oddly found himself cracking a small smile. “I don’t belong here anymore. I have done things, sinful things, that cannot be undone. I am not worthy of this robe any longer.”

Brother Abba walked forward, and Diarmuid closed his eyes, awaiting some sort of punishment. He instead received a hand on his head, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Abba looking down at him with sadness. 

“You are free to do as you wish. Know that God walks with you, and that He will forgive you if you are willing to forgive yourself.”

“Yes, Abba.”

The hand withdrew and he turned to leave, scattering the rest of the monks in his wake, all except for the younger one from earlier, who instead came up to him and the mute.

“There is a small town north of here called Saoirse. I used to live there before coming here. I’m sure you will find it to be a good place to live. I can give you directions before you leave tomorrow if you want.”

“That would be much appreciated. Thank you.”

With a little bow, he left, leaving the mute and Diarmuid standing there. They eventually went to their cells and packed what little they owned. Since he would no longer be a monk, the mute gifted him some of his smaller clothes. They would have one last meal with the monks and head out in the morning, towards a town neither of them had ever seen without a coin to their name or a plan in mind, but Diarmuid found himself unafraid. As long as the mute and him stayed together, the world didn’t seem as bad anymore. He was eager to learn more of the world and what it held. 

He was also looking forward to seeing the mute smile more often.


End file.
